


My Righteous Man

by CrimsonLilithBlack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I kind of hate myself, M/M, My First AO3 Post, My First Destiel Fanfic, My First Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:38:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonLilithBlack/pseuds/CrimsonLilithBlack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my first fic. If you're looking for happy fluff, this is definitely NOT what you're looking for. Um, other than that, enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Righteous Man

Castiel was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because he was in Heaven, and Heaven was closed to him now. He did not know whose Heaven he was currently in, but he was sitting on a bench in the middle of a forest, which was drenched in red and orange, colored brightly by autumn. He breathed in the peace, the quiet. As an angel he had never felt the tranquility of Heaven as purely as he did now, and he lost himself in the feeling. Perhaps, when he inevitably died, his now human soul would find its way to Heaven. He breathed deeply, and a quiet happiness filled him.

He woke with a sickening jolt.

For a moment, he was unsure what had awoken him, and he lie on his back, searching. Then he felt it, the emptiness on the bed next to him, where Dean should have been. Castiel stretched out his hand, although he knew it was futile, and he could feel the cold of the sheets in his bones. He allowed himself to pretend Dean was lying there, breathing softly next to him, hair mussed, face relaxed in sleep. Castiel thought bitterly that if he were to see Heaven in is dreams, he would prefer to see his own Heaven, because he knew that Dean would be there waiting for him.

Castiel allowed his thoughts to wander - he knew he should fight it, but the alcohol in his system made it difficult to control his thoughts anyways - and he wondered if Dean’s Heaven included him. He thought of Dean’s face, of the wrinkles around Dean’s eyes, of the way his lips curved when he was fighting off a smile. The image sent pain and wistfulness coursing through Castiel, amplified far too much by the liquor.

Alone. That’s what Castiel was now. The Winchesters were gone, his brothers and sisters had forsaken him. No, that was wrong. _He_ had forsaken _them_. For Dean. All of it, everything, for Dean. But now Dean was gone, too.

The sheets next to him were too cold. Castiel could not help but think that Dean was cold, now, too.

He knew what he had to do.

Clumsily, stumbling, Castiel dressed himself. He wriggled into his slacks, managed to put his shirt on without giving himself any more bruises, and slipped on his trench coat. He did not even bother with his tie. As carefully as he could manage, Castiel made his way outside.

He was at Bobby’s house, but Bobby had lost his fight long ago. Castiel was the last. Sam had said yes, Bobby had taken on an angel and lost, and Dean -

Dean lay cold and still, carefully and lovingly wrapped in white sheets, on the largest pyre Castiel had been able to build before he collapsed from pain and exhaustion.

He knew what he had to do.

Castiel placed his hand upon Dean’s head, closing his eyes against the all too human tears welling up within them. “Dean,” he murmured, and all the pain rose up within him, erasing everything but the memories that flashed before his closed eyes like lightning: Dean singing along and horribly off key to ACDC in the Impala, Dean grinning excitedly over a practical joke he was planning for Sam, Dean with tears in his eyes when Sammy died, Dean with his face empty of anything save bliss, and finally, Dean’s eyes, half lidded, entirely empty and blank, spark gone.

He knew what he had to do.

Opening his eyes, Castiel gently placed a kiss on the outline of Dean’s forehead. He steeled himself, then began shaking out the rock salt onto the body as he struggled to force himself to breathe. He poured the gasoline next. Castiel reached into the pocket of his trench coat, his hand clenching around the lighter. The smell of gasoline burned his nose, his lungs.

He knew what he had to do.

He removed the lighter from his pocket, flicked it open. Castiel ignited the small flame, watching it burn orange, almost the same color as the trees he had seen in his dream of Heaven. Time seemed to freeze, and it was all Castiel could do to keep his lungs working, to force himself to breathe through the agony. As if from a distance, Castiel watched his hand lower the small orange glow and set the pyre alight.

And now, standing here alone, with tears streaming down his face, Castiel says the one thing that will shatter his unbreakable human soul.

“Farewell, my righteous man.”


End file.
